by Joe Nobody
“Are you OK? What’s going on Bishop? What just happened?”
“Someone was shooting as us. Just keep going, and watch the road. I am hit in the arm. I’m fine.”
A Deer Kills the Hunter
Alberto could not remember how long it had been since he had been at the high-rise apartment in Covington, Kentucky shooting at trucks on the bridge. He had avoided the American authorities while trying to reach El Paso, which is where he was supposed to have crossed the border days ago. When the American society had begun to fall apart, he realized he had to avoid everyone. He lived in Beirut as a child and had seen this type of behavior before. Every man for himself was what they would call it here in the west. He had used all of his military skills and training to reach Texas and had stolen a truck outside San Antonio two days before. While hiding in woods, he came across two men hunting. They shot a wild boar; and as they were cleaning it, he came up behind them, took their weapons, and shot them both. He found their truck and headed toward El Paso.
He believed the animal that jumped in front of his truck was called a White-tailed deer. For sure it was some sort of antelope, and he had hit the animal so hard it broke his windshield and caused him to swerve off of the road. The truck rolled twice, resulting in a broken collarbone and a fracture in his right leg. He had limped along that first day for hours without water. While he was accustomed to arid climates, these plants were strange to him, and he had not been able to find any that produced moisture. The throbbing in his leg was so bad he could no longer walk, and he settled in a small gully. As the sun began to set on the second day, he knew he was dying from dehydration. He still had his rifle and would use it to stop the first car that went by.
When he first heard the noise, he thought he was either hallucinating or there was ringing in his ears. He lips were blistered, and he was having trouble breathing, but his eyes were not failing yet. There was enough moonlight to see a truck going down the road without any lights. He had to stop it; this was his last chance. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and almost lost consciousness from the effort. He calculated the truck was driving very slowly since it was dark, and it used no lights. He led his aim with the hunting scope and pulled the trigger. He didn’t know if his shot had been good, but realized the truck was moving much faster than he had originally thought. He centered quickly and pulled the trigger again.
He turned his head to see if the truck stopped, but it didn’t. He heard its engine race and fade into the distance. He decided to sleep for a bit. Maybe he would dream of home and his favorite mosque. He said a prayer and closed his eyes.
They never opened again.
Wounded
Terri was driving over 80 mph, and Bishop asked her to slow down to 50 or so. He started digging around in his blow out bag, a first aid kit strapped to his chest rig. He was not sure how bad he was hit or where the bullet was. He was breathing okay, but the entire left side of his body was numb and tingling except his arm and shoulder – they hurt like hell. He could not use his left arm at all, and was fumbling around with various dressing and bandages in the bag, not sure what to do in the dark.
Terri said, “Bishop, I think it’s raining. There is water on the windshield.”
“Rain, here? No way.”
“I can see it, Bishop. I’m going to need the wipers.”
Bishop looked up, but couldn’t see anything but black. Without his night vision, it was like staring at a wall. He said, “Rain is not impossible here. I guess that will help cool it off a bit.”
Terri responded with, “What is this light blinking on the dash mean?”
Bishop looked over her shoulder. “Oh shit. Pull over.”
They got out of the truck, and Terri wanted to see his wound before doing anything else. She took the paramedic sheers from his blow out bag and cut away the blood-soaked sleeve of his shirt. Holding a flashlight in her mouth, she could tell the bullet had entered his upper arm right through the triceps, and exited into his ribs. With his body armor on, she couldn’t see anything beyond that. While the arm wound looked clean and had missed bone, the rib entry point was still bleeding badly. She dressed the wounds as much as possible, but all of Bishop’s equipment prohibited her from applying a proper bandage. Bishop felt exposed along the side of the open road and refused further treatment. He talked Terri through opening the hood of the truck.
The first shot had punctured a radiator hose and sliced it badly. The “rain” Terri had seen on the windshield was actually the truck’s anti-freeze and water spraying out of the cooling system. It did not take long for the level of critical coolant to be depleted, and the engine to begin overheating.
Bishop was feeling weak. His entire left side was now wet with blood, and his head felt like it was going to split open. He had Terri retrieve the sleeve she had cut from his shirt, and he wrapped the discarded rag around the radiator cap. When he twisted the cover, it blew off in his hand and showered him with steam and droplets of scalding water. He spun away from the spray, flaying his burning arm while spinning in small circles. His movements were accompanied by the angry recital of every known curse in his extensive vocabulary. He finally sat down in the middle of the road and continued to fill the air with vulgarities, some newly created on the spot. Eventually, his voice lowered, and then he sat silent for a few moments.
After he had recovered from the shock of the burn, he asked Terri to find the duct tape. He knew it would not hold forever, but hoped it would work until a better solution could be found. He used a flashlight to show her where to wrap the tape, and she began to refill the radiator with drinking water. Their supply of water was down to less than 20 bottles, so they filled the radiator only to the point where Bishop thought they could drive without damaging the engine. They only had four bottles left to drink.
He looked at a map while she tried to get more bandages on his wounds. It was such an awkward position to work on. She got an idea from a large compression bandage in the kit. While elevating his bad arm, Terri wrapped some duct tape as tightly around his chest as possible in order to get pressure on the wound and hold the bandage in place. When she moved his arm, she noticed his eyes roll up in his head and his knees bent just a little, but he never said a word.
Bishop felt vulnerable along the side of the road, but there was no place to go. He knew they needed time, water, and somewhere safe to hide until he could get his act together. As he studied the map, he saw a place that he had been years before. They had no other choice.
Terri helped him into the truck and laid him down across the backseat. When she got back in, he said, “Sanderton - follow the signs. I’m going to sleep for a bit, wake me when we get close.”
Terri drove down the dark highway until she saw a sign giving the distance to Sanderton. She was torn between driving fast to take care of Bishop and driving slower to take care of the truck. She settled on a speed somewhere in between “Grandma Moses” and the “bat out of hell.”
Sanderton, Texas – September 18, 2015
Ghost Town
Sanderton had been founded as a watering station for the Georgia-Pacific railroad shortly after the civil war. The town had flourished for several years despite its isolation and proximity to the Mexican border.
Since the 1980s, the story had been quite different. The town had experienced a continuing decline in population primarily due to the success of other towns in the area. By the year 2000, it was a completely uninhabited, semi-modern ghost town. There were still four boarded up buildings at the intersection, with weeds, fallen shingles and small bits of scrap iron scattered around the paved areas. Its primary role in the last 20 years was a destination for teenagers to sneak away and have beer bashes.
As far as the state of Texas was concerned, Sanderton still existed, but the US government had closed the post office years ago. It had been located in the General Store, and when that shut down, there was no place left to house it.
As Terri slowed and approached the intersec
tion, she realized that this was the first town they had entered without sneaking, scouting or crashing through since they had left Houston. The few buildings still standing were within sight of each other, and she drove around each one making sure there were no other cars or sign of recent visitors. She had to be careful because broken glass and debris was scattered everywhere. She decided on a building that looked to be in the best condition and offered a little cover for the truck. There had been a small lean-to built behind the structure, and there was still enough of it standing to hide the truck. While anyone going down the main road would not be able to see it, the hiding spot would not hold up to a closer inspection. This will just have to do for now.
She checked on Bishop. He was still breathing well, and his pulse was strong. When she touched his wrist to check it, he moved and changed his breathing just a bit. She decided to let him rest while she nosed around a little. Damn him, she thought, I am picking up his bad habits. She started to grab her 9mm pistol, but had felt more secure with the rifle at the roadblock. She knew the basics of how it worked, and Bishop’s favorite one was lying on the floor of the truck. She pulled it out, made sure it was loaded and a round chambered. She made sure the safety on.
This rifle didn’t have a weapon light, and she really didn’t want one. She walked around the truck for a bit, peering through the night vision and listening. She went back to the truck to check on him again and tried to see how much he was bleeding. She knew that was her first job – stop the bleeding. Because of Bishop’s position in the truck, she really couldn’t tell how much blood he had lost since it was running through the crack in the seat. The white light of the flashlight made it difficult to judge his color. At least he is still breathing, and the blood has not started running out from under the seat.
She locked the truck and proceeded to explore the building she had picked. There was a double front door surrounded by windows, all of which were boarded up. When she stepped on the front porch, she almost fell through the rotten wood. Good, she thought, it will be hard for someone heavier than I am to sneak up on us.
Terri checked the back door, and it was boarded up as well. Whoever closed this place down really didn’t want anyone inside. Knowing she was going to have to break in somehow, she decided on the back door. That would leave the front undisturbed in case someone passed by. She checked the 2x4 boards that were nailed across the rear entrance. They were all solid and tight. She thought about trying to pry them off, but figured that would take forever, and she didn’t have anything to pry with anyway.
She opened the back of the truck and rummaged around, but couldn’t find anything that would help. She dug out a pair of her blue jeans and wrapped them around the middle two boards. She found a piece of rusty iron rebar lying nearby, put it between the legs of the jeans, and started twisting.
On about the sixth turn, one of the boards cracked. She hoped it would break soon because she didn’t think she had the strength to twist it many more times. She put all of her weight into it, and the bar went half a turn, and the top board went “pop” and came loose. She managed to tear the board away and repeated the process. In about five minutes, she had removed all but the bottom and top boards. The ruined jeans were thrown to the ground.
Behind the boards was a solid sheet of very thick plywood nailed to the doorframe. Her kick accomplished nothing but hurting her foot. Is anything you see on television true? She thought about trying to shoot the board off, but didn’t want to make the noise and was not really sure this plan would work. She grabbed a nearby rock that was about the size of a softball and threw it as hard as she could. It bounced off, almost hitting her as it rolled back.
It was time to regroup and think for a little bit, so checked on Bishop again. His pulse had slowed. Rolling him a few inches to the side revealed the entire back of the truck seat was covered in blood. This is not good. I have to get him inside where I can work on him or he is going to bleed to death right here in the truck.
She returned to look at the door again, but just couldn’t figure out a way to get it open. I have got to get this done, and right now. She went back to the truck, started the engine, and inched it slowly toward the door. She knew the front bumper was engineered with a big rubber component that stuck out and hoped it protruded enough to meet the door before the rest of the bumper hit the doorframe. At this point she didn’t care if she hurt the bumper or not – she had to get Bishop where she could dig the bullet out. Moving the truck forward bit by bit, the bumper engaged the plywood door with more force than anticipated. The truck jolted enough that Bishop moaned, but the plywood gave way on one side. Terri backed up and re-aimed. This time she was able to better control and soften the impact. The second push left the plywood hanging loosely in the frame. She backed up the truck and got out to examine her dirty work. One good strike with her hand sent plywood crashing inwards, creating a small cloud of dust when it landed.
She retrieved a flashlight from the truck and used the night vision to scan the inside first. The NVD showed her a small back room, completely empty. The flashlight revealed falling plaster on the floor and a few cobwebs.
The main part of the building proved to be empty except for one old chair, a few boxes of yellowed paper, and some scrap wood lying around. Dust covered everything.
Terri pulled both hammocks out of the back of the truck and suspended one between two columns that ran through the middle of the main room. She pulled over the chair and tested it – it would hold her. She laid the other one out flat on the floor. She then ran back to the truck and retrieved the large medical kit and a small box of books Bishop had packed before they left. The last four bottles of their precious water came inside next.
It took a few attempts, but Bishop finally opened his eyes to look at her. His pulse sped up, and she thought that was a good thing. She told him where they were and that it was safe, but he had to get up and get inside. He nodded and with her help, managed to get out of the truck and into the building. She took off his chest-rig, body armor and cut his shirt away. Guiding him to the floor hammock, she had him lay on his stomach so she could see the damage.
The bullet had entered through the upper arm and exited into his rib cage through the opening in his armor below the armpit. She remembered seeing something on TV once that talked about how bullets can take random paths through the body. She traced the path of the bullet by the swollen, purple flesh. This one had been deflected by his ribs and traveled upwards into the muscle covering his shoulder blade. There was no exit wound. The bullet was still in there. She ran back and retrieved two flashlights and using the duct tape, secured them to the columns shining down on Bishop. He turned his head a little and told her he was worried about the light. He wouldn’t relax and tried to get up, so she walked around the building quickly to make sure there wasn’t any light leaking out that would be detected by passersby. He relaxed a little bit and seemed to go back asleep.
The arm was still bleeding, but most of the blood was coming from the entry wound on the rib cage. She looked around in the box of books and found the US Army Survival Manual. Its third chapter was about treating bullet wounds in the field, and she read it as quickly as she could. She checked his pulse again. It was even faster than the last time. She flipped through the book and re-read the section on shock. An increasing pulse rate was a sign Bishop was going into shock.
She grabbed a clean shirt and spread it out on the dusty floor. She spread out the contents of the medical kit and took a quick mental inventory. As she was getting organized, Bishop turned his head and said, “Baby, I need water. I need it real bad.” She grabbed a bottle, and he drained it without pausing. He said, “I’m so thirsty. I think it is because I’m losing blood. I could drink 10 more of those. I’ve never been so thirsty.” She handed him another, and it was gone in a few seconds. They had two bottles left. She started to use one to wash off the wound, and remembered the two bottles of bourbon that were in the truck. They were a door prize at a
company party, and Bishop had brought them along for bartering.
She used the expensive bourbon to wash the dried and caked blood away from the torso wounds. She would deal with the arm later. Much to his displeasure, she pushed gently on his shoulder to see if she could find the bullet. There was a red streak that started at the entry and when she followed it around, she found the bullet about one half inch below the surface of his skin in the muscle below his shoulder blade.
“Bishop, baby, I found the bullet.”
“It has to come out. How deep?”
“Less than an inch. I’m going to have to cut you. I don’t know about this Bishop.”
“Terri, I love you. That bullet has to come out, or I’m dead from infection. You are going to have to cut it out.”
“Do you want some booze? They do that in the movies, you know.”
“No, but a bullet to bite on might help,” Bishop joked to lighten the mood a bit.
“Funny. This is all swollen and purple back here, and I think it’s going to hurt. Are you ready?”
“I was born ready. Terri, I say crazy shit when I’m in pain. Do you promise not to hold it against me?”
“I promise. Okay, here goes.”
She took the scalpel from the medical kit and opened the sterile wrapper. Her first attempt to cut his skin barely drew blood because she didn’t press hard enough. She pushed harder, and the skin sliced open. Bishop tensed, but didn’t say anything. She pulled apart the skin with her fingers and stuck tweezers in the incision, causing Bishop to inhale sharply and arch upwards.
“I HATE YOUR MEATLOAF!” he growled.
She smirked and thought, I don’t make meatloaf, then dug around very gently with the tweezers until she felt the bullet.
“THOSE NEW SANDALS LOOK LIKE OLD LADY SHOES!”
He’s delirious because my sandals look great. She tried to put the tweezers over the bullet to pull it out, but the skin would not stretch enough, and she didn’t want to tear the skin and hurt him.
